


To Build A Home

by g33kyclassic



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Gen, M/M, Storytelling, Temporary Character Death, how joe and nicky became joe and nicky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29349969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g33kyclassic/pseuds/g33kyclassic
Summary: Nile can't help but be fascinated by Joe and Nicky's relationship: its longevity and its happiness.  One day she caves and asks how it all began.Or the story of how Joe and Nicky became Joe and Nicky.  Its not a pretty tale, but it is an honest one.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 20
Kudos: 245
Collections: The Old Guard Big Bang





	To Build A Home

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few quick notes before we dive into the the fic:
> 
> 1) No significant historical research was done for this fic. The focus is the relationship, not the history. All historical characters are a creation, not based on real historical figures.
> 
> 2) There is violence in this fic and I have tagged it as 'graphic depictions of violence', though I do not feel it is 'graphic' in its description. There is torture and violence though, so please read with the knowledge of the content.
> 
> 3) I would like to thank my artist, Chloe for her beautiful work! It is seriously stunning. You can find more of her art on tumblr: notablogtobefollowedunless
> 
> 4) Also, many many thanks to my beta energievie for making this fic the best it could be!
> 
> 5) And I would like to thank the organizers of this event! It was so much fun to join in.

* * *

**To Build A Home**

* * *

She knew they were together, of course she did. Anyone could parse that out within a few minutes.

Still, Nile hadn’t _understood_.

It had taken a couple weeks, weeks spent in a quiet little seaside town on the Mediterranean, for her to see: Joe and Nicky were a unit. They weren’t nauseatingly lovey and handsy the way some new couples were, but they had almost none of the bored familiarity of a couple that had been together for decades either. 

Somehow they were all of that, and yet _more_.

They seemed to communicate without words with a frequency Nile found disturbing. Nicky always anticipated when Joe would be hungry, including randomly having snack foods in his pockets while they were out shopping for new clothes and passing a protein bar over to Joe when he started getting fidgety. 

In turn, Joe could pick up on Nicky’s subtle signs, signs Nile simply couldn’t see. Some afternoons Joe would come into the living room, holding a finger to his lips because Nicky had fallen asleep. Nile had come to learn that aside from Andy, Nicky was the other member of the team who slept the least: he slept lightly and roused easily. On missions he often played the role of scout and worked for days on end with little to no sleep. Times like these, lazy days for rejuvenation and family, Joe was very protective of Nicky catching up on his sleep. Joe also loved to pamper Nicky with small gifts: books, drawings, saving Nicky the last piece of dessert, massaging Nicky’s scalp. 

Yet this morning, he had sent considerable time complimenting Nicky on his very ugly, very practical slip on shoes that he wore whenever he was cooking, all while winking at Nile over his shoulder, a knowing smirk on his face.

“I know you think my shoes are ugly, Joe. Lying is unnecessary.” Nicky countered, not even looking up from his chopping.

“Ah, but you, my heart, are perfection. Shoes or no shoes.” 

“Ever the romantic.” Nicky looked over his shoulder with a smile, the kind that spoke volumes and made Nile feel like she was intruding just by sitting in the same room.

Finally, NIle had broken and asked Andy.

“How long have they been like this?”

“Always.” Andy replied, not even looking up from sharpening her ax.

Clearly Andy had misunderstood.

“I mean, like this: all cute and affectionate and ‘we’re so in love and we don’t care who knows it’?” Nile clarified.

“Always.”

“Seriously?”

Andy looked up and raised a brow, before turning back to her work.

“F--” Nile managed to cut herself off just as Joe stepped into the room, giving both her and Andy a sincerely friendly smile.

Nile returned the smile and held herself carefully still until Joe left the room, letting them know he and Nicky were headed out for a walk. She exhaled slowly when she heard the front door open and close a few minutes later.

Nine hundred years of happy couple-ness? It didn’t seem possible. And yet, it did shed some light on some of Booker’s comments, the look in his eye when he looked at Joe and Nicky, and rift that had sprung between the men after the Merrick fiasco.

Nile couldn’t possibly begrudge Joe and Nicky their happiness, their love for one another, but for a man like Booker, a man so wrapped up in his own pain, it must have been excruciating. It certainly didn’t excuse Booker’s choices, yet Nile could appreciate how the sweetness of Joe and Nicky’s blissful relationship must have soured more moments of Booker’s long life than Nile could ever imagine.

Nile gave herself time to mull things over for several days. She tried not to watch Joe and Nicky, attempted to not make them her focus, but they drew her eye more than she cared to admit. To avoid creepy stalker-like behaviour, Nile had thrown herself into training with Andy: hand to hand combat, learning how to handle, sharpen and clean a blade.

“It’s time to talk to Nicky.” Andy said at the end of a gruelling two hour session. “He can teach you accuracy. Throwing knives, bow and arrow, sniper rifles, surveillance - he’s the best teacher. He has the patience of a saint - almost literally.”

Nile had nodded and made her way into the house, intent on finding Nicky and having a quick conservation about scheduling a training session.

Except, Joe and Nicky were sitting on the couch, Joe casually watching a documentary on American spelling bees, while Nicky lounged, head in Joe’s lap, as he read a book. Though his eyes never left the TV screen, Joe idly ran his fingers through Nicky’s hair, a tender, yet almost automatic gesture that made Nile’s need for more information about their nearly thousand year old romance rear its head and demand attention.

“Andy said you’re the man to talk to about long range weapons.” Nile said, looking at Nicky, her mind mostly occupied thinking about anything but training.

“Hmm.” Nicky set his book down and gave Nile his full attention. “But you would like to ask about something else.”

Nile stared at him, those large, fathomless eyes taking her in with the kind of focused attention Nile was sure she’d never felt from anyone else in her life. He had a way of looking at people that was both soft and intense, that invited both silent introspection and nakedly truthful confession.

“Have you really been together for nine hundred years?” The words blurted out inelegantly.

“Yes.” Nicky’s voice was so sure and true.

“And I look forward to nine hundred more.” Joe added, his lips twitching, but his eyes serious and fixed on Nicky’s face.

“You’ve been in love, a couple, for nine hundred years?” 

Nile couldn’t help the way her voice rose, questioning joe and Nicky despite the fact that she was sure they were both telling the truth. It just defied any and every expectation. It didn’t seem possible. And Nile had seen some shit in the last few months; still nine hundred years in love just didn’t compute.

“You are so young.” Nicky said, gently. “You think there must be some secret to such an enduring love, but it is no different than any other - our love remains because each morning we wake and make it so.”

“How did you know? How could you possibly have seen, all those years ago, that you could have… this.” Nile gestured lamely at the two men on the couch.

“That’s easy.” Joe answered smoothly. “We didn’t know - we killed each other after all.”

The two fools grinned at each other then and Nile could do nothing more than shake her head in frustration.

“But you stopped.”

“It was very tiring.” Joe smirked.

“And pointless.” Nicky added.

“Seriously,” Nile frowned, hands on her hips. “What changed? How did you go from killing each other, to the oldest couple on the planet.”

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/192104172@N07/50931085208/in/dateposted-public/)

“Tell me.”

* * *

Yusuf smiled as he walked between the stalls of the bustling market. The streets were busier than he had ever seen them before: this was the fall harvest market: people and merchants had travelled in from nearby villages and towns, all of them mingling and trading. There were families reuniting, matches being made for future marriages, and everywhere Yusuf walked, conversation flowed and excitement thrummed through the air.

Yusuf savoured every voice, the noise, the emotions, the varied dialects and languages. He threw himself into haggling, finding the best deals at stalls and making the most of his meager funds. 

Surrounded by the chaos of people and the celebration of the harvest, he was almost successful in forgetting about the Frank.

Almost.

Except he couldn’t help but think of his travelling companion when he stopped to look at the stand of a man selling boots. The Frank’s boots were threadbare, little more than a hazard. Even Yusuf, who would deny even the tiniest bit of concern over the Frank until his dying breath (if he even had such a thing), was slightly concerned about how many evenings the other man had returned home from a day working in the fields with bloodied feet. 

There had also been a woman with finely woven wool blankets; thick, warm, beyond tempting. Yusuf had spent most of his hard earned coins on two of them. The Frank - Nicolò - hated the cold. He never complained, stubborn mule that he was, but Yusuf had heard his teeth chattering on cold nights in the desert during their travels.

As the days continued to turn, the chill of fall nights would come and Yusuf was determined not to be awakened by chattering teeth and the constant shifting of a cold Frank. Besides, his travelling partner would work harder and earn more if he was well rested and shod. Coin was hard enough to come by as two oddly paired travellers, they hardly needed to be hindered by being ill clothed and fatigued. 

Yusuf was not being thoughtful, he was being practical. Or so he said to himself as he walked slowly back to the simple home he shared with the Frank.

Dusk had fallen in earnest by the time Yusuf entered the drafty little outbuilding they shared on the edge of town. Yet when he entered he found himself alone. No doubt Nicolò was working late again. Complain though he might about the man, Yusuf could not claim the man did not find work. Though he had none of Yusuf’s skills - reading, writing, art, maths – Nicolò was willing to put his body through a great deal to earn a few coins. He would work with animals, haul goods, unload ships, repair carts, fences, and houses. Now, he, like many of the young men in town, was working the fields, bringing in the last harvest.

Standing alone in their one-room home after starting a fire, Yusuf looked around, surveying the familiar cluttered tidiness.

The Frank was an orderly sort, for all that he did not seem to understand the concept of regular bathing. He kept his meager possessions neatly tucked under his sleeping pallet. He ate too quickly, but never left even a crumb of food behind.

Yusuf could see the sword now, leaning so innocently against the wall near the Frank’s sleeping pallet. Yusuf eyes fixed on the thing, so long and straight and carefully sheathed.

He clenched his fists.

That sword had killed him. Several times.

Yusuf felt his breaths coming out in harsh puffs. How many people, good innocent people, had died on the end of that sword? How many men, women, and children had the Frank run through during the attack on Jerusalem? During the whole of his faith’s ridiculous campaign?

The anger surged, making bile rise into his throat.

If Yusuf could admit that the Frank - Nicolò- had some redeeming qualities, if there were moments when he felt himself soften toward the other man and think some sort of friendship might be possible, then came moments like this. Moments when his memories of the battle of Jerusalem, the slaughter of its people rose so clearly in his mind, that Yusuf could feel nothing but hate for his house mate. 

They travelled together, they shared the same strange deathless fate, but Yusuf would not forget and he would not forgive. Not ever.

* * *

Yusuf was angry with him again. Nicolò didn’t know why, but then he seldom knew what he had done to cause Yusuf to sink into one of his moods.

Today, Nicolò relished the ache in his muscles, he cherished the blossoming pain in his palms, he felt cleansed by the sweat rolling down his back. Yusuf’s anger always demanded penance. 

Nicolò knew he was the cause of the other man’s anger.

Yusuf had hardly said as much last night. In fact, he hadn’t blamed Nicolò for his dark moods or outwardly expressed his distaste for Nicolò and his fellow Christians who had attacked Jerusalem all those months ago. 

The siege felt like a lifetime ago, and in some ways it had been. Though he had crashed through the gates of Jerusalem only three months ago, killing men along the way, those actions felt like those of another man. A man who had known so little and understood even less.

Now, he felt he understood nothing.

Not his past actions. Not what was happening to him, this mysterious, miraculous inability to perish. Certainly not Yusuf.

Yusuf was both too kind and too cruel. Nicolò was almost certain there were moments when Yusuf had forgiven him for the horrors of Jerusalem, or at least momentarily forgotten them. But that look, that hard, flinty eyed look always returned and Nicolò knew Yusuf had neither forgiven nor forgotten.

Still, he worked and hoped his sins, whatever they may be, would be cleansed by the sweat on his skin and the pleas for forgiveness etched on his heart.

Nicolò had tried to say the words aloud, to ask for forgiveness of his newfound companion but they always died in his throat. He had much to atone for and a very great deal to thank Yusuf for; if not for the other man he would have died half a dozen times over during their frantic travels through the desert. Yusuf knew how to find water, he knew where to find game and edible plants, he knew how to speak to other travelers, he knew where they might go and not be immediately met with suspicion. 

Nicolò could recall the first time he met Yusuf in vivid detail: the sharp pain in his side, the startling red of the blood on his hands, the weakness in his knees, the shock of breathlessness. And yet the clearest image from his death had been the deep brown eyes of the man across from him, the man he had stabbed through the heart who had fallen beside them, both of them kneeling in the dirt, dying. Only moments before this man, this stranger had been nothing more than another faceless, nameless enemy, now they were brothers in death.

He still believed they had been brothers in that moment; dying together, awaking and breathing their first new breath with the same shared shock.

That sense of kinship had not been present in their small home this morning. Yusuf had snipped at him when he’d come in last night and the snipping had mounted to a full blown argument as the evening progressed.

Nicolò, confused by Yusuf’s anger and already on edge, had not responded well to Yusuf’s snappish attitude. The other man frustrated him to no end with his refusal to speak to Nicolò in Greek or Lingarian, the languages Nicolò was most familiar with. Yusuf would only speak in the tongue of his own people, bullheadedly insisting Nicolò learn at every turn. Still, he tripped over the words and cursed his own tongue its inability to say what he wanted.

Finally, Nicolò managed to string together a few coherent words.

“Attack… village… risk.”

Yusuf had spoken. He had spoken and spoken and spoken.

It was likely a very intelligent, passionate lecture. Yusuf was an intelligent and passionate man. Nicolo, however, only understood every other word at best, and all he could say for sure was that Yusuf had called him an ‘idiot’, a ‘fool’ and several other things that sounded much more belittling. He was almost certain Yusuf had insulted his mother at some point as well.

He had listened to Yusuf’s words in stoic silence. What more could he possibly do? 

His silence seemed to drive Yusuf mad.

But there had simply been something in his gut that Nicolò could not deny. This celebration, a joyous fall festival to mark the end of the seasons harvest, was a risk. There had been so many rumours since their arrival two weeks ago of attacks by a powerful warlord from the neighbouring region, a warlord who had been raiding villages, and towns, even a few smaller cities. 

This town, this lovely, quiet place that Nicolò had come to think of as a sanctuary of sorts, not far from a lazy river and within sight of mountains, had yet to be a target. 

Nicolò’s gut had been churning with worry since the merchants and travellers had begun to arrive. The number of people in the town had swelled, likely well over a thousand souls. The joy and celebration was apparent; Nicolò could hear the sounds of music and laughter even from the fields during the day, and the sounds of drunken revelry had made sleep difficult these past two nights.

All of it had made Yusuf smile; he couldn’t hide his excitement, not even from Nicolò. He left each morning for town and his work, his body twitching with excitement. Yusuf liked the new people, the new faces, the chance to use his skill with languages and paper and quill.

Nicolò wished for the quiet of the village life to return. For the calm.

They had both agreed to stop in this place almost a month ago, to settle in place after many weeks of wandering. Fleeing, really. They had both been running from the horrors behind them, not that Nicolò ever spoke of his nightmares, or Yusuf his.

Nicolò had come to rely on the peace of this place, and this celebration and his deep seated worry about a possible attack were ruining it all. The fields he reaped were no longer a sanctuary, but rather open and at risk. Nicolò knew his fellow farm hands were nothing more than sitting ducks - fodder to any raiding party. There were no sentries posted to protect the town and the fields on the farms lay outside the city’s wall.

Yusuf may have criticized his paranoia, his anxiety, but it was his constant vigilance that drove him to walk past the edge of the fields each night, climb the rocky rise that provided a small natural barrier to the town and look out onto the open valley below. When he had confessed his actions to Yusuf last night, the other man had been furious that Nicolò had wasted his time on such an endeavour.

When Nicolò heard footsteps approaching him tonight, he turned his head to see an approaching form and his eyes widened, before he gazed back over the valley.

“Joining the ‘idiot’?” 

“I had to see it for myself.” Yusuf answered. “The hoard of raiders set to attack us.”

Nicolò managed to resist rolling his eyes heavenward, but only just.

Yusuf sat himself beside him, and though he didn’t let himself look, Nicolò was sure Yusuf was looking into the distance as well. The valley was lush with grasses and shrubs, even the occasional flower remained in bloom. It was gorgeous and still; completely peaceful.

“You have done this every evening this week?” Nicolò heard a hint of curiosity, perhaps even apology, in Yusuf’s voice despite its hard tone.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“There has been nothing to see, as yet.”

“This is a fool’s errand.” Nicolò turned at the harshness of Yusuf’s voice. “You must see that. These people, though different then you, know how to protect their land, their families. You insult them with your behaviour.”

Nicolò frowned, feeling the weight of Yusuf’s words.

“I trust in these people.” Nicolò replied, eyes steady on Yusuf’s face. “I mean no disrespect, but I cannot turn a deaf ear to what my heart tells me: this town, these people, are at risk.” Nicolò sighed. “I will sit here watching an empty valley happily for it will mean that life here continues as before, untouched by the ravages of an invading force.”

The sound of Yusuf’s long exhale filled the otherwise eerily quiet valley. Despite their disagreement, the man did not leave. As dark fell and they remained seated in silence, Nicolò was reminded of how many nights they had spent like this in the past, how many times they had sat glancing at each other across the dim firelight, both too stubborn to speak.

The chasm between them had shrunk over the weeks, but distance still remained. Nicolò did not know how he could ever redeem himself in the eyes and heart of the man beside him. What could he possibly say or do to atone for his misdeeds, his lack of understanding?

Yusuf still thought him an uneducated heathen. He thought Nicolò travelled with him through these new lands with his eyes closed and ears shut. Yusuf thought Nicolò was still the man who had killed him and others in Jerusalem. Nicolò could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes; he did not believe Nicolò had changed, that he _could_ change. And Nicolò had no words with which to sway him. 

Words flowed for Yusuf. Wherever they went, people flocked to his side, drawn to his deep intelligent eyes, his broad welcoming smile, and charming words. Nicolò in no way compared - he’s tongue tripping over every new language and dialect, his light eyes drawing suspicion from almost every passerby, his serious face causing women to turn from him and men to scowl.

Just as the sun dipped below the foothills and Nicolò was contemplating conceding, he heard it: hoofbeats.

* * *

Immortality did not prevent a man from bleeding. Nor did it prevent discomfort, rather it merely prolonged the torture. Yusuf had not had the occasion to think much on that last point, but he certainly had time now.

His stomach churned and his wrist chafed against the tight ropes that bound him. Not for the first time, Yusuf wondered where their captures had taken Nicolò. He wished, now with hindsight, he would have taken the man seriously, not dismissed his suspicions, as ridiculous as they had seemed at the time.

When they had heard the hoofbeats in the distance, Yusuf had cursed; a long streak of words in almost every language he knew. Nicolò had immediately stood and directed Yusuf to alert the town. As if by magic, he had procured a crossbow and a quiver of bolts.

“I will slow them.”

His voice had been firm and brokered no argument. Though he’d hesitated at first, Yusuf had left Nicolò alone on the ridge and made his way to town as quickly as he could.

The Frank had bought them the time. Yusuf had managed to rouse and rally the townsfolk, many of whom had been more than a little drunk, to the city walls. The battle had been bloody and hard fought; an ill planned chaotic mess that had driven off the raiders by sheer luck and the single minded determination of one man. 

Well… perhaps two.

Yusuf could give himself some credit. He had fought nearly as well as Nicolò. After Nicolò arrived back in town, hurdling over the city gates like an avenging angel to strike down the few attackers who had made it past the town defenses, they had even fought back to back for a time, an inpenetrable force keeping the town from being completely destroyed by angry invaders.

Now, Yusuf was alone. He was cold, in more pain than he’d like to admit, still covered in blood from last night’s battle, and alone. He felt Nicolò’s absence keenly. There was nothing more he wanted than for the other man to return, and yet he dreaded seeing the door to the dank pit of a room he was being held in open. 

What state would Nicolò be in when he returned?

Alone with his thoughts, Yusuf’s imagination conjured up a thousand possibilities, each one worse than the last.

When the door finally opened, the brightness of the sun blinding him before he heard the sound of a body being thrown next to him, Yusuf lost what little control he had left.

Using the full extent of his vocabulary he cursed the man who’d tossed Nicolò aside without a second glance, straining forward against his restraints. He felt a vicious satisfaction when, after he shouted a particularly creative insult about the man’s mother, the guard turned and made his way back into the cell.

Yusuf grinned maniacally at the guard, a rather young, pimply faced man, but one of their captors nonetheless. He bared his teeth threateningly, feeling feral and invincible. 

He remained smiling fiercely, until the pimply faced youth walked over and kicked him soundly in the mouth, before stalking out of the room without a word in three swift strides.

“You let your mouth run faster than your mind.”

Yusuf jerked at the sound of Nicolò’s voice. It was gruff and low, but still retained that quality that only Nicolò had - a calm certainty that often put others on guard, including Yusuf.

“You would have me use sweet words? For those bastards who tried to slaughtered a town full of people celebrating the harvest? Who killed women and children in front of our very eyes?” Yusuf hissed, faced flushed with anger.

“That is not what I said.”

Yusuf hated Nicolò’s face in that moment; its lack of expression, its serenity. 

“I cannot believe we are here.” Yusuf spat harshly. “If not for you, we would never have been caught.”

“Me?” Nicolò arched a brow. “It was not I who ran after the bandits, bent on vengeance.”

“It was you who fell.” Yusuf accused. “I could not leave you there, flailing in the mud, and so we were caught! You and your clumsy Christian feet were our undoing!”

“I was only caught in a muddy swamp in the pitch black of night because of _you_.” Nicolò shot back, his eyes flashing with anger. “I begged for you to stay back, to let them go. We had won the night, they were retreating. Neither of us would be here if you had been able to control your temper.”

“My temper.” Yusuf repeated coldly. “Were you not troubled by the casual way they set houses alight? By how many families’ homes and livelihoods they ruined? Could you not see it? How the streets were running with blood? Again?” Yusuf’s voice broke and he shook his head harshly, breaking his gaze on Nicolò’s face and sitting himself back against the wall with a thud.

Eye closed, heart pounding in his chest, he tried to forget. Forget the attack on the town they had chosen as their resting place, forget Jerusalem, forget his inexplicable inability to die. 

Suddenly the cell felt smaller and yet the chasm between himself and Nicolò seemed insurmountably wide.

“There is nothing I could ever do to atone for Jerusalem.” Nicolò’s soft tone cut through the silence. “But I would have you know it haunts me. There are countless nights I have dreamt of it and then wake, feeling my hands covered with blood once more, watching the atrocities over again and knowing that none of it was done with the blessing of God.”

Yusuf does not want to be moved, not by Nicolò’s words and certainly not by his face. But as he looked into those wide, eerily pale eyes, the chasm closed, more than Yusuf would have thought possible.

“We must escape.” Yusuf said, and it was not until he voiced the words that he fully realized how true they were.

“We will Yusuf.” Nicolò vowed. “Together, or not at all.”

* * *

Their captures had shown restraint and cunning. They kept Nicolò and Yusuf alone in the dark of their cell for what felt like days, but was likely only hours. As there was no window, there was no light and any sense of day or night had been stolen from them. 

When a guard came, he took Nicolò from the room again, despite Yusuf’s angry and colourful protests. Had the situation not been quite so dire, Nicolò would have found it amusing. As it was, his lips twitched at Yusuf’s more creative insults; the man had such a talent with words.

Still, Nicolò had heard the fear beneath the insults. They had spent their time talking in frantic whispers; wondering what was to come and attempting to plot possible escapes despite knowing little to nothing about where they were or who was holding them captive.

Though Nicolò had spent time out of the cell yesterday, it had consisted of little more than a handful of young men taking turns spitting on him, chanting what Nicolò could only assume were insults, and punching him in the face. He’d had next to nothing he could tell Yusuf aside from the fact that the men had been young and were very suspicious of him and his foreign appearance.

Now, stumbling along beside the man who had hauled him out of the cell and into the blinding sun, Nicolò kept his head down, and tried to take in as much as he could.

He could hear horses neighing. He could smell fires burning. He could feel a bite in the air.

He snuck his head upwards, peaking through the hair falling into his eyes. 

Mountains. They were in the foothills of the mountains.

At least a full day’s ride from the town, possibly more.

Nicolò couldn’t remember much of the journey after they were captured. They had both been tied, blindfolded and Nicolò knew he had been soundly knocked over the head. 

Nicolò’s head still felt fuzzy, though likely due to hunger, not the multiple blows he had received. And Yusuf, as always, made him feel off balance. He was dizzy from how swiftly Yusuf’s rage had turned to determination, how they had inexplicably gone from snapping enemies, to collaborative partners. 

As he was hauled from the bright light of day into the dim shadows of a wooden hall, Nicolò forced himself to focus. Everything and anything he could glean from his time outside the cell could be the key to escape for himself and Yusuf. He would not, he _could_ not, fail.

* * *

The warlord, the man responsible for the attack on their small town, and many others like it, fancied himself a strategist.

He made Nicolò wait.

He did not know his enemy; Nicolò was a man more familiar with slow, solitary hours of anticipation than most. He had waited for his life to begin in Genoa, the overlooked youngest son of a large family. He had waited for the excitement and fulfillment of his pilgrimage to the Holy Land to change the monotony of his life. Yet the Holy Land had brought nothing but more tests of patience and faith.

Sitting on the floor in a dark, cramped space was little hardship. Nicolò spent his time listening, though there was little to hear - he must have been placed a fair distance away from any main rooms.

The silence was purifying. Nicolò thought of nothing but the goal of escape and his changing relationship with Yusuf. By the time a young man with a ragged looking beard open the door and dragged him out of his solitary confinement, Nicolò had a perfect clarity of purpose.

Nicolò was thrown to the ground in front of a man seated on a large, wooden chair. The man was clearly in charge; he sat with the kind of casual decadence that only men accustomed to power could possess. He was almost wider than the chair itself; his shoulders muscular and broad, his clothing detailed, with a fur lined hood, embroidered collar and tall leather boots. It was his face, however, that was truly commanding: haggard and stern, his dark eyes observant and arresting.

Nicolò held himself still, head slightly bowed.

Respect. This man demanded respect. If the man in front of him was indeed Ankhar the Warlord, a name he and Yusuf had heard whispered in villages, towns and cities for weeks before settling in their own small town, then he had reason to command a room. He was known for his iron control of men, his greed for more land, more riches, and more power, and his vindictive nature toward anyone who defied or betrayed him.

The threat of what might happen should Nicolò not act with appropriate deference hung in the air.

“You will tell me who you are working for, spy.” 

The harsh angry tone, followed by the thump of a pounding fist, startled Nicolò into looking up. As did the words themselves. 

Spy?

Nicolò was no spy, nor did he have any inkling as to why the man in front of him would be so certain he was.

He shook his head slowly as he tried to wrap his tongue around the right words in a language he still struggled with daily.

“I am no spy.” 

“Liar.” The warlord’s voice brokered no argument. “Our attack was anticipated. You and your companion led the defense - a defense that should not have been possible. So, either you and your companion are spies, or you were informed by spies of the attack. And you will tell me, or you will die.”

“We have nothing to say. We are not spies.” Nicolò repeated, keeping his voice soft and as calm as he possibly could. “Luck saved us.”

“Luck.” The warlord huffed, with a dismissive shake of his head.

“A man and his son were out late in the fields and heard horses – too many horses. The boy warned the town. The man never returned to town, your men must have killed him.” 

Nicolò prayed his lie, with its hints of truth, would be believed. He wished Yusuf, with his talent for words and befriending everyone and anyone was here beside him. With his repeated stumbles and no doubt many grammatical mistakes, Nicolò was not even entirely certain he had been understood, or said what he’d intended.

“Bring him here.”

Nicolò barely had time to register the words before two guards grabbed him under the arms and hauled him, feet dragging on the floor, toward the warlord, throwing him at his feet. Nicolò caught himself with his hands before his face hit the ground, his palms scraping along the floor. The warlord used the moment to step down with his full force and crush Nicolò’s right hand under his heel. 

Nicolò bit down on his tongue, tasting blood, but he did not utter a sound. Not even when the warlord grabbed his hair and jerked his head up.

“There are consequences for lying. Understood?”

Nicolò nodded as best as he could with his hair gripped tightly in the other man’s hand.

“Hmm.” The warlord looked down at Nicolò as if he was a stain on his embroidered collar. “Do not think you can lie again. I will know, and I will not be so kind in my punishment.”

Nicolò stumbled and fell as the warlord shoved him swiftly back, releasing his hair and turning to look at the guards.

“Take him back to the cell.”

* * *

Nicolò tumbled back into the cell after what felt like days. Yusuf knew it must have only been hours, but time passed slowly sitting alone, without food and only a strip of light to break the darkness.

“Nicolò?” Yusuf called softly, moving toward the other man, who was little more than a heap on the floor. “Nicolò, are you hurt?”

The question itself should have been ridiculous. He and Nicolò couldn’t be hurt, not for any length of time anyway. They both still felt the sting of a blade piercing skin, the lick of flames burning flesh, or the dull ache of a solid blow to the head, but once healed, the pain faded, more quickly than Yusuf had ever experienced in his first, natural life.

“That man has no mercy.” Nicolò’s voice answered, pushing himself into a sitting position and leaning against the cold stone wall, holding his right hand, bloodied and twisted close to his body. “He was not fooled by my lies. I hope you have more success, you have always been better with words.”

“Is it the warlord we’ve heard so many rumours about? Ankhar?”

“He did not introduce himself.”

Yusuf couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped him. “This is the moment you choose to prove you have a sense of humour? While we are captive and facing certain death?”

“We cannot die Yusuf.”

“I know.”

Yusuf sat himself beside Nicolò as the other man extended his hands in front of him. They both watched in silence as Nicolò’s injured hand healed itself, the bones knitting themselves back together, the skin binding itself together.

“It’s slower than usual - the healing.” Yusuf noted.

“Like when we were lost in the desert.” Nicolò nodded. “No food, no water - the body heals and persists, but only just, each new life a painfully torturous process.”

Yusuf felt his heart turn in his chest at the memories of those early days, always on the edge of something: death, another violent argument ending with weapons drawn, or the icy silence that fell between them afterwards, threatening to hurl them both off the teetering precipice that was their uneasy truce. He thought of how many times he had derided Nicolò in the desert, cursed his unnaturally changeable eyes, his foreign and backwards Christian ways, and his inability to speak more than a few words of intelligible Arabic.

“You can be quite poetic, for an uneducated heathen.” Yusuf gave Nicolò a cheeky grin.

“Only when I am speaking Lingurian, or perhaps Greek.” Nicolò smiled in return, that small twitch of his lips Yusuf had learned was equal to another man’s full grin. 

“They cannot find out about us, Yusuf.” Nicolò said moments later, holding his healed hand up to the thin beam of light illuminating the room.

“I know.” Yusuf nodded solemnly. “I have thought of little else since they took you this morning.”

“That man, Ankhar, or whoever he may be, he is hungry for power, drunk on it. Should he discover our secret…” Nicolò frowned. “I do not wish to imagine what he might do.”

Silence stretched between them and Yusuf could not help but think of his new immortal life. It has always seemed a mixed blessing; terrifying, yet wonderful. There had been days when he’d felt that he and Nicolò had only remained together, tied by their shared bond, clinging to the only other soul in all the world who understood the enormity of their newfound immortality.

Still, he felt he had never understood the fragility of their existence until he had been locked in this dark cell at the mercy of an unknown capture.

“What did you see? Is there any easy route for escape?”

Nicolò shook his head. “We are in a well established encampment. There are few buildings, but more tents than I could easily count. Our only advantage may be that the men are young and most seem comfortable here, perhaps a bit careless. But their leader is neither of those things.”

“We must be cautious, bide our time.”

“He said that we were spies.” Nicolò raised his head to look at Yusuf, his face that perfectly impassive mask he often wore when giving a problem his full attention. “That we knew the attack was coming - he thinks we work for one of his rivals.”

“Paid mercenary spies?” Yusuf arched an eyebrow. “He gives us much credit.”

“We did kill a good number of his men.” Nicolò commented without a hint of regret. “He is paranoid. Lusting for power and terrified to lose even a fraction of what he has already gained.”

“We must stay silent; admit to nothing. What did you tell him?”

Yusuf listened to Nicolo’s tale of the man and his son, conceding that the lie was a reasonable one, even rather well told, given Nicolò had had little time to plan ahead. It held some truth and had told their captor very little about them, allowing them these moments alone now to concoct some sort of elaborate tale.

“We must both know what to say next.” Yusuf said firmly.

“We do not know what he will ask.” Nicolò countered. “How can we possibly know what to say?”

“We follow your lead and stick close to the truth - we are travellers who were new to the town. Stopping to make some coin, with plans to move on to future travels after the winter months. We know nothing of the politics in the region - not even the names of his rivals. Thus, we are innocent of any and all plots against him.” Yusuf ended with a reassuring grin.

“You know the names though, do you not?” 

“The names?” Yusuf repeated.

“Even I had heard of Ankhar, the warlord terrorizing these lands. But you, you will have noted the name of every town and village he has attacked this year. And you will know of any and all rivals he may have, whether they be other aspiring warlords, or legitimate leaders of state attempting to stop him from ravaging their lands and people. Wherever we go, you always know these things. Wherever we go people talk and you listen. I would dare to say you listen almost as much as you speak.” 

Yusuf sat up straight, taking immediate offense, before he caught the twitch of Nicolò’s lips.

“You are teasing.” He said with a huff.

“Hmm, a little.” Nicolò shrugged. “But you truly are a fount of knowledge. It will be more difficult for you to lie; I know nothing, as you say, but you know a great deal.”

“Ah, but I shall use my gift with words to distract him.” Yusuf grinned.

“Will you regale him with grand tales? Perhaps poetry? Or will you simply refuse to stop speaking?” Nicolò prodded, smiling slightly.

“You wound me.” Yusuf held a hand to his heart in mock seriousness. “I will use my talents to bond with the man. Woo him with tales of adventures in foreign lands: grand cities so large you cannot see where they end, exotic spices and decadent sweets, beautiful women and unimaginable nights of pleasure!”

“Ah, yes. He will no doubt be seduced.” Nicolò agreed, his words light, but his eyes staring back down at his hands intently. “And I shall repeat my little tale and claim innocence, ignorant foreigner that I am.”

“You agree then, to the plan?” Yusuf asked, feeling as if the easy comradery of the last few minutes had somehow inexplicably shifted as Nicolò continued to keep his head ducked down. “Together, yes? We will succeed together.”

“Fate brought us together Yusuf.” Nicolò lifted his head, those pools of grey, blue, and green fixed on Yusuf’s face. “We were meant to find each other. Of that I have always been certain. I will do whatever it takes to find our way out of this mess.”

Yusuf felt his words catch in his throat. Nicolò had never laid himself so bare before him in the past. Perhaps, he had not let him. Perhaps, Yusuf had held onto his anger toward the other man so obviously, that Nicolò had held himself apart, and alone. 

No more.

“I am thankful fate was on our side. Even a day without knowing you, without knowing that I was not alone in this immortal journey would have been… unthinkable.” Yusuf said, holding Nicolò’s gaze. 

In that moment, looking into Nicolò’s usually disconcerting pale eyes, Yusuf felt a sense of belonging and comfort that he had not thought he would ever feel since he had died on the streets of Jerusalem. That he was sitting on a dirty floor of a locked cell was not lost on him, and the ever present sense of fear remained. 

And yet, as hopeless a situation as they found themselves in, Yusuf had hope. Hope that if he, a Muslim man who had defended the walls of Jerusalem, and Nicolò, a Christian invader who had breached them could find a way to forgive one another and forge the beginnings of a friendship, then anything might be possible.

The clatter of boots hitting the floor, keys jingling, and muffled voices broke him from his thoughts.

They were coming again.

“You have to break my hand.” Nicolò instructed, kneeling in front of Yusuf, hand placed flat on the floor.

“What?” Yusuf scrambled back, horrified at the very idea.

“Do it, Yusuf.” Nicolò ordered. “We must keep our secret - break it.”

Yusuf glanced at Nicolò’s pale fingers stretched over the dark dirt and then to the door. The footsteps continued and the voices of the guards became louder. Yusuf looked back at Nicolo’s hand. His legs felt like lead, and he stood rooted on the spot.

Nicolò shook his head and stood.

“I will do it myself.”

Yusuf’s eyes widened as Nicolò pulled back his hand and made the first move toward punching his fist into a solid stone wall before he grabbed the other man and hauled him to the ground. Nicolò fought back immediately, but Yusuf held firm, crossing his forearm over the other man’s throat and holding him still.

“Be still.” Yusuf hissed into Nicolò’s ear. “I will do it. I will do it.”

Nicolò calmed instantly and when Yusuf released his hold, immediately sank back to the ground, hand extended and eyes locked on Yusuf’s face.

Steeling himself, knowing he must do as he had promised or risk exposing them both to worse than merely a broken hand, Yusuf raised his foot and brought it down on Nicolo’s hand with all the force he could muster.

* * *

“You really did it? You broke his hand?” Nile’s shocked voice cut in.

“I did.” Joe nodded easily. “We did meet by killing each other, if you recall.”

“That was when you first met on opposite sides of a war!”

“I was necessary.” Nicky added evenly. “I asked it of him for our protection. And he broke much more than my hand.”

“A few ribs.” Joe admitted.

“An ankle.” Nicky continued, a soft smile on his face as he kept his eyes on Joe’s face. “And then you found that rock - it was very helpful for bruises and breaking bones, much more effective than your foot.”

“It was. Had to find another one with a sharp edge for the scratches and cuts.” Joe glanced over at Nile, an easy smile on his face. 

“You… how are you smiling?” Nile asked, horror lining her face. “All of this is… awful, horrifyingly awful.”

“Capture changes things; we are never so vulnerable as when we are at the mercy of others.” Nicky explained, and Joe could see the solemn seriousness on his face. “You may feel different, newly immortal and seemingly invulnerable, but we are not so different than anyone else; strong and resilient, yet fragile and breakable. There is not much you will not do to escape the prospect of endless torture.”

“Were you terrified?”

“With Yusuf beside me?” Joe felt Nicky’s eyes flick to him briefly and he smiled as he leaned back in his seat. “Never.”

* * *

The days, the hours, the minutes blended together. They were little more than endless moments of pain.

Nicolò had had some hope when Yusuf had been taken from the cell and returned unharmed. It had seemed almost too good to be true, which, of course, it was.

Yusuf had been pleased with his performance, and Nicolò had been relieved beyond measure to see not even a scratch on Yusuf’s skin. The optimism was buoyant, but did not last. They had taken Nicolò next and he had come back to Yusuf bloodied and battered, barely able to keep his feet despite his body’s healing abilities.

The guards had removed Yusuf from the cell as soon as they tossed Nicolò back inside. Yusuf had protested, loudly, struggling against the two young men. For a moment, with the passion and unexpected nature of his movements, Yusuf had almost escaped their grasp and Nicolò had hoped, oh how he had hoped. But the guards had rallied and called for more men, and Yusuf had been subdued after a solid blow to the head. The guards had pulled him down the hall, but his eyes, those deep soulful brown eyes, were locked on Nicolò. They had stayed that way, focused on nothing but each other, until the guards had pulled Yusuf through the door at the end of the hall and it had shut with a resounding thump.

The pattern had continued, each of them being taken out of the cell, always alone. Nicolò returned battered, Yusuf unscathed.

“Is he under the spell of your charms?” Nicolò asked when silence descended upon them in their dank little cell.

Yusuf let out an extended sigh, then lifted his shirt to reveal a colourful pattern of bruises and hesitantly shook his head. “He may find my ridiculous tales entertaining, but when I quite delicately asked if he might let us go…”

“He was not agreeable.”

Yusuf nodded dejectedly.

“How much of you will I be breaking?” Yusuf asked, sitting himself beside Nicolò on the floor.

“I am quite damaged.” Nicolò admitted. “I have not charmed him in any way and despite my refusal to speak, he is dedicated to his attempt to beat answers out of me.”

“Let me see.” Yusuf motioned him to stand.

Nicolò moved slowly, pain still radiating through his limbs, many of which had been broken over the course of his last few beatings. Unfortunately, Yusuf had been responsible for breaking them all over again, and the pained look on his face each time he cut, bruised or broke another part of Nicolò’s body had not gone unnoticed.

Nicolò was more than a little tired with the whole routine himself. Yet, they both agreed their immortality must remain between the two of them alone. A bit more pain was more than worth the effort.

If he was being honest with himself, he preferred taking the pain. He could hardly be expected to fulfill Yusuf’s role, he had no talent for small talk and silver tongued lies. He was far too prone to simply saying exactly what he thought, or worse, the precise truth. It had seldom served him well, and would certainly not have been useful in their current situation.

“What were your dreams, Nicolò?” Yusuf asked suddenly. “Before all this. Before immortality. What did you want from life?”

Nicolò looked sideways at Yusuf, puzzled by the question, only to find Yusuf sitting with his head back, and eyes closed.

“I was to serve the Church. I had given my body and soul to Christ.” Nicolò answered, slowly, watching Yusuf carefully. “I had hoped to have a small parish of my own, my own folk to tend. However, when the Pope called for pilgrims to seek out the Holy land, my local priest, my mentor in the Church, urged me to go. He urged all of the young men to go: I went.”

“Did you want an adventure?” Yusuf asked. “Before settling back in Genoa with your parish?”

“I would not have warranted a perish in Genoa, that would have been far too important a position for a newly minted priest such as myself. Perhaps something in a small village down the coast, or up into the mountains.” Nicolò glanced back at Yusuf to find his eyes open. “I did not seek adventure. I sought to find a union with God, to fulfill what the Pope declared to be a Holy quest.”

“Did you know anything before you left? About Jerusalem? About the people who lived there?”

“I knew nothing that was not written in our holy texts. I hoped to find… something. My calling, my purpose perhaps?” Nicolò shrugged. “Instead I found sand, dust, violence, hatred and blood. Until I met you.”

“Me?” 

Yusuf’s brown eyes had that look, that intensity he so often radiated from his being. It was impossible to look away from him, all that attention fixed upon you, all those emotions bubbling to the surface.

“It was finding you that was my purpose, Yusuf. Only through your eyes could I truly understand all that I had to learn, all the many things I did not know. Through your eyes I could see the beauty of a new place, a new people. You have been my guide to the world beyond Genoa.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/192104172@N07/50931084058/in/dateposted-public/)

“You do not wish you had stayed in Genoa, lived a quiet life of service, away from all the many complications we have found?”  
“Never.”

“The raw nature of your honestly never ceases to astound me, Nicolò.” Yusuf said softly. “How the man before me - a man I know to speak nothing but the truth, a man who rescues stray kittens and pups in every town, and a man I have witnessed give his last piece of bread to a beggar - wielded a sword with a purity of hatred that made the streets of Jerusalem run red, I will never understand.”

“I regret my actions in Jerusalem.” Nicolò vowed, fervently. “I was mistaken. Our cause was not just, nor godly. If, some day, I can atone for my sins, I will be thankful.”

“You have no need to atone to me, Nicolò.” Yusuf said, his voice oddly pained in a way Nicolò could not remember ever hearing. “You are forgiven; you were forgiven long ago.”

“There is no need to tell mistruths, I have seen the anger in your eyes -”

“I did not say I am never frustrated by you - you are a puzzle of a man, Nicolò! Forgive me for my confusion, but you are a man who has refused to speak to me in Arabic for weeks, only for me to find you speaking only slightly broken Arabic to a group of children in an alleyway. Why them and not me, Nicolò? Perhaps it is you who have not forgiven me.”

“They did not judge me my mistakes. It was easier to be the fool in front of them.” Nicolò felt awkward under Yusuf’s scrutiny, but here, in this place, with death or discovery hanging over their heads, what little remained of hope lay with the man beside him and the possibility of forging a bond of friendship between them. “You are a scholar, a poet, an educated man of the world, and I… I can barely read Arabic script on a page. I was tasked to read and write nothing but scripture for years.”

“You needn’t feel embarrassed with me.” Yusuf frowned deeply and Nicolò couldn’t help but shift, feeling a hint of embarrassment even now. “I wish to help you learn.”

“I am always making mistakes, tripping over words. I am slow to learn, as I have always been.” Nicolò admitted, feeling his cheeks flush with heat.

“You are not slow to learn.” Yusuf countered immediately. “You have learned to tend fields, learned to ride a camel, learned to capture, skin and cook snakes, and can now yield a scimitar better than half the men who defended the walls of Jerusalem. You have a keen mind and a great many skills. Any struggles you have had are a reflection of my skill as a teacher; I have not been as patient as I should have been.”

“No, you -” Nicolò shook his head, dismissing his protest. “We have both misunderstood each other, it seems.”

“Many times, more than likely.” Yusuf smirked. “But not any longer, I hope?”

“No, not any longer.” Nicolò agreed, keeping himself fixed on the depth of Yusuf’s brown eyes.

* * *

Yusuf felt his thighs twitch, cramps running down his muscles from being stuffed into a small, dark, chest, his limbs folded into awkward positions to accommodate his size in such a limited space. His breath came in shallow pants as he tried, and mostly failed, to control his panic within such a confined space.

This torture, for it certainly was torturous, was new. Until today, the warlord had let Yusuf speak, spinning tales and providing entertainment. Entering the room today, Yusuf had known after one brief look at the warlord, that there would be no charming them with stories of foreign lands. 

Anhkar had sat on his throne-like perch, surrounded by sour-faced guards with their hands placed lightly on the hilts of their weapons. It had not been a welcoming sight.

Now, he felt as if he had been stuffed in the chest for hours. Each frantic beat of his heart rang in his ears and he could not stop the thought that he was running out of air. Sweat pooled on his lower back, and Yusuf closed his eyes, asking Allah for strength and calm.

Just as he was beginning to feel something resembling control over his own body, he heard the sound of people moving in the room around him. The creak of the large main door broke his concentration, the sound of boots hitting the floor and the thump of something large hitting the ground made his stomach churn. 

What was happening?

Yusuf cursed the dark around him and the thick wood of the chest that muffled the voices in the room. He knew men were speaking, he could hear the anger of one voice - Ankhar perhaps? - and a low, steady reply from another man.

Then, something was thrown against the chest and Yusuf almost yelped in surprise, biting his cheek to keep himself silent. Whoever had been tossed groaned and Yusuf fought against the urge to call out and beg to be released. Any admission of weakness in Ankhar’s presence would only be a tool for him to exploit.

The voices and rough sounds of someone being manhandled continued for endless minutes and Yusuf began to feel the pit in his stomach grow. It must be Nicolò out there. It must be. For a moment he was almost sure he heard Nicolo’s voice, a pained harsh sound so close to him, perhaps right beside the chest, before the clear sound of Ankhar’s voice drowned him out.

“Are you wondering where your friend is?” Ankhar taunted. “I shall give you a hint: he knows exactly where you are, but he can’t help you.”

Yusuf could not make out Nicolò’s reply, but he did hear Ankhar’s laugh: a cackle that caused Yusuf’s heart to twist in his chest.

“What have I done? Me?” Yusuf heard the sound of fist hitting flesh and winced knowing Nicolò was suffering outside. “It is what you have done with your silence that is to blame. If you would only tell me what I want to know, all of this could end. I would not break another bone, or cut off another piece of flesh. I would not have you dragged through the encampment by my horses yet again. I would let you, and your friend go. If only you would speak.”

At those words, the clear threat to Nicolò, Yusuf’s panic dissolved into anger. He pulled back his arms as far as he could and slammed them forward, knocking into the side of the chest over and over, pleased to hear the echo of the noise he was making ringing in his ears.

Yusuf kept up his actions, ignoring the pain in his hands and the trickle of blood sliding down his knuckles, until something slammed into the chest with force, sending Yusuf careening into the opposite side of the chest.

“It seems I do know where you have put my friend.” He heard Nicolò’s voice, so close, only a thick slab of wood between them.

He almost laughed. Nicolò’s dry wit in the midst of this horrendous situation was so in character for him - ever unphased regardless of the chaos around him - that Yusuf felt reenergized. 

If only that energy could get him out of this ridiculous box and out into the room where he could help Nicolò.

But no matter how many times he hit the lid of the chest, with his hands, or his knees, it did not budge. He remained trapped and Nicolò remained at the mercy of their captor, a man who had yet to show he had any semblance of leniency, certainly not toward the clearly foreign Frank. The sounds of violence still filled the room and Yusuf could hear Nicolò’s suffering even over the sound of his own knees pounding against the wood of the chest.

Silence.

Yusuf stilled, suddenly aware that he seemed to be the only one making a sound. The change is eerie and unsettling. 

“Let’s bring your friend out to play, hmmm?” Ankhar’s voice broke the silence.

Yusuf’s stomach clenched and he braced himself for the chest to open. The creaks and groans of the lid opening caused him to freeze, tensing his body and almost completely closing his eyes, guarding himself against the startling brightness of the light that is no doubt soon to come.

When the moment came, light flooding into his senses and almost blinding him despite his best attempts to protect himself, Yusuf forced himself to move, surging upwards toward the young guard reaching down toward him and kicking him soundly in the face. Yusuf could not help but be pleased at the crunch of his nose under his boot and the gush of blood that quickly followed.

He pushed himself up and out of the chest quickly, jumping onto the injured guard’s back, grabbing the dagger strapped to his side and slitting his throat with a precise and efficient stroke.

For a glorious moment, he found Nicolò and as they had many times before, in cities, in the desert, on dusty roads when swarmed by bandits, they fought back to back. Yusuf with his stolen dagger and Nicolò with nothing more than his bare hands. The solid presence of Nicolò behind him, those strong shoulders pressed against his own grounded Yusuf, at once heightening his senses and calming his nerves.

Alas, the moment could not last. They were surrounded by a dozen men armed to the teeth and it took only minutes for them both to be thrown to the floor, disarmed and waiting for the judgement of the warlord.

Yusuf was not expecting leniency, but as one of the guards pushed his head uncomfortably into the floor, Yusuf focused all his attention on Nicolò, who looked back at him with those eyes, fathomless pools of blue that Yusuf had once found disturbing, but now seemed to hold the answers he hadn’t even been aware he was looking for.

Though he wanted nothing more than to stare into Nicolò’s eyes, Yusuf could not help but be distracted by the blood streaking down his pale face and onto his tattered tunic. He had been soundly beaten while Yusuf was locked away. Yusuf could not even begin to count the tears to his clothing and trails of blood as he let his eyes wander over Nicolò’s body.

Yet when he dragged his gaze back to Nicolò’s face, he saw nothing but fury: a fierce determination directed at their captors. Yusuf bared his teeth; he would not be cowed by Ankhar’s threats. Together, he and Nicolò would endure.

“You have spirit, the both of you.” Ankhar’s voice rang out above them. “Perhaps, in another place, I would give you my respect. But I have grown tired of you both. Silence from one, tales spun from nothing from the other - neither answering my simple questions.”

Yusuf’s head was jerked upward and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nicolò receiving the same treatment, his long elegant neck exposed.

“You must be punished for your stubborn ways, but I am a reasonable man.” Ankhar continued, standing above them. “A will give you a choice: only one of you will receive the punishment, the other will return to the cell untouched.”

Yusuf opened his mouth immediately to speak. “I -”

“I will take the punishment.” Nicolò’s voice interrupted.

“No.” Yusuf said, the word wrenched from his throat. “No, Nicolò.”

“I will take the punishment.” Nicolò repeated, his eyes fixed on Ankhar.

“But it is your friend who killed my man. Should it not be he who is punished? For his sins?” Ankhar smirked, arms crossed over his chest.  
Nicolò held Ankhar’s stare and remained silent.

“Take him back to his cell.” Ankhar ordered.

Yusuf felt the guards lifting him to his feet and fought back, kicking and pulling against their grasp.

“No!” He cried as they dragged him away. “It is I who should be punished! Nicolò, don’t do this… Nicolò!”

Yusuf watched the thick wooden doors to the main room close, separating him from Nicolò with a finality that struck him mute.

How could he have done it? Why? After so many days of torture, why would Nicolò offer himself up yet again? Why?

* * *

Yusuf was angry. With him. Again.

He hasn’t said it, but Nicolò felt it in the tension in the air and the jerky movements of Yusuf’s usually graceful hands. It wasn’t the same as before, this anger. Yusuf wasn’t glaring at him as he would usually do in the past, he wasn’t even looking him in the eye. No, he was ever so gently tending to Nicolò’s numerous wounds in what little way he could, not that Nicolò needed tending, using strips of cloth ripped from his own tunic and the remains of the water given to them by the guards. Yet when Yusuf’s hands left his body, he moved abruptly, slamming the jug of water to the floor and kicking rocks away to make a space for Nicolò to lay on the floor.

“You are upset.” Nicolò ventured, determined to talk to him. 

They had promised to work together, to put their past differences behind them. If he and Yusuf could not speak to each other, how could they possibly build a partnership? Nicolò could think of little else he wanted more than to escape this place with Yusuf at his side and continue to cement the fragile foundation of friendship they had built thus far in this cell.

“Of course I am upset, Nicolò! I am angry!” Yusuf threw the cloth down and whirled around, his eyes blazing. “That man… that man hurt you, again. And you let him!”

“I could bear it.” Nicolò answered, confused.

“You could bear it.” Yusuf snorted. “It _should_ have been me, Nicolò! Me! I have been practically untouched thus far, I could have born it better. I should have born it.” Yusuf finished with a thump of his own chest.

“I did not want to see them hurt you.” Nicolò admitted. “I did not think I had the strength to stand there while you were beaten and not reveal our secret.”

“Oh, Nicolò.” Yusuf plopped himself down on the floor beside him, shaking his head. “Did you think I would not feel the same? I have forgiven you.” Yusuf said, his eyes wide and sincere. “I know there have been times when my actions may have seemed otherwise, times when I have been cruel to you, but you have been forgiven.”

“I have earned your cruelty.” Nicolò said, letting the brutal truth behind his words come through.

Yusuf shook his head. “No, I do not think you have.”

“I killed you. And many others in Jerusalem. The atrocities that my people committed -”

“I killed you, and a fair few of your brothers in arms. It was a battle, Nicolò. Men kill men in battle. And you have shown me since then, in many ways, the man you truly are: a good, kind man.”

“I should have considered you would feel the same, that you would not want to see me hurt. But I am healing, as always.”

Nicolò held up his arms, moving his fingers to show his newly healed hands. Yusuf’s eyes scanned his body, and Nicolò knew what he would find: a knotted head wound, no longer bleeding, the smooth pale expanse of his chest, no bruising or cuts to be seen.

“I do not want you to do anything like that again. Promise me.” Yusuf said, his tone drawing Nicolò’s full attention.

“I will not make a promise I am unlikely to keep.”

“Nicolò…” Yusuf growled.

“Would you make the same promise to me?”

“No.” Yusuf sighed. “I would prefer to avoid it if possible.”

“Then we must plan.”

“Then we must plan.” Nicolò said firmly.

“We should give in.”

“No! I am not -” Nicolò protested, pushing himself upright.

“We should _appear_ to give in.” Yusuf cut in quickly. “We need to find a way to leave the encampment. We cannot possibly escape from this place without revealing ourselves and causing chaos we cannot control.”

“But if we were to leave, with a smaller number of guards…” Nicolò considered.

“Yes! Then, we stand a chance.” Yusuf continued eagerly. “With smaller numbers, in an isolated place - we will have the advantage.”

“How do we convince Ankhar to take us out of the compound?” Nicolò asked.

“We give him what he wants.” Yusuf grinned. “With certain conditions.”

* * *

Nicolò swayed on his knees, light headed from blows to the head and significant blood loss.

 _Trust in Yusuf’s plan_ , he repeated to himself as he closed his eyes.

Yusuf’s plan was sound. They had discussed it in detail long into the night, sitting so close Nicolò could see the freckles on the bridge of Yusuf’s nose, despite the dim light. Their voices little more than hushed whispers, they plotted and planned. For every one of Nicolò’s questions, Yusuf had an answer, for each of his doubts, a reassurance. 

In the end, Nicolò had agreed, how could he refuse? With Yusuf staring at him with those big brown eyes pleading, he had been helpless to resist. Not to mention, he himself could come up with no better ideas for escape.

As he swayed on his knees, listening to the sound of the guards beating Yusuf, he could not help but wish Yusuf’s plan had contained slightly less torture.

Nicolò turned his head slowly, and looked at Yusuf, sweat and blood obscuring his vision. The other man was there, also on his knees, blood running down his face and covering his tunic. Nicolò could see Yusuf’s chest rising and falling, his breathing hard and fast, his jaw clenched. He knew what Yusuf was doing; hiding as best he could the pain of his healing; as his body knit bones and flesh together, making him new and whole. 

If they did not act soon, their secret would be revealed.

As if he sensed Nicolò’s thoughts, Yusuf turned his head to the side and met Nicolò’s eyes. A quick flash of teeth, a feral smile, was all Nicolò saw before Yusuf hung his head, hunched his body and groaned. 

Perhaps this was the signal, but Nicolò could not be sure. Yusuf had been certain he would know when the time was right, and Nicolò had put all his trust in his companion. He wished, and not for the first time since they’d been captured, that he and Yusuf had spent the past few months differently. That instead of letting their anger and distrust fester, they had spent their time getting to know one another. What if their evenings around the fire had been spent in conversation over their meager rations, instead of full of harsh words and sullen glares?

Maybe if they had cultivated a friendship and found common ground, they would not be here today. If Nicolò had not been so afraid of Yusuf’s anger and too cowardly to admit his mistakes…

A solid blow to his ribs interrupted any further introspection and Nicolò doubled over, his right arm instinctively wrapping around his middle protectively. He was completely unprepared when the guard behind him kicked him in the back, sending him sprawling to the floor, chin hitting the wood planks with a loud pop. 

When his head stopped ringing, Nicolò managed to turn his head slowly and spit out a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

“Your friend is rather useless, isn’t he?” Ankhar’s voice sounded above him. “Hasn’t said a word in ages. No matter what I have done to him. Hardly seems worth it to keep him here, now does it?”

Nicolò felt his head wrenched upward, pulled roughly by his hair, and it was so unexpected that he coughed, more blood spewing from his lips. Head up, neck strained, Nicolò was met by Ankhar’s black eyes and his vicious sneer.

“If you won’t talk, what good are you, hmmm? With those big eyes and pretty lips, I’m sure my men could find some use for you.” Nicolò heard Yusuf growl beside him, but he kept his focus completely on the man in front of him. “If you won’t speak, you hardly need that tongue, though do you?” Ankhar stepped back and reached behind him, turning back with a thin blade, Nicolò could not help but rear back, struggling against the guard who held him.

Ankhar stepped back and reached behind him, turning back with a thin blade and Nicolò could not help but rear back, struggling against the guard who held him. The man held fast to Nicolò’s hair, and he winced as he felt strands ripped from his scalp.

The tip of Ankhar’s dagger danced against his skin, opening fresh wounds up his arm and onto his right cheek. Nicolò let out harsh pants, but refused to flinch back.

“You do bleed nicely.” Ankhar remarked casually, pushing deeper into Nicolò’s chin. “I wonder, will you choke on it when I remove your tongue?”

Ankhar leaned over, studying Nicolò as if he were a bug to be squashed under his foot. Nicolò did the only thing he could, held tight by two guards, and spit on Ankhar’s face.

The other man growled, and slapped Nicolò across the cheek, a hard crack piercing the room. Before Nicolò could recover, his head spinning from the blow, he cried out sharply, Ankhar’s blade having sunk deeply into his thigh.

“Nicolò!” Yusuf’s voice called, on the edge of his senses and Nicolò held onto it, keeping himself in the present, feeling the pain, hearing his own low moaning, stubbornly living through it all.

“Hold him.” Ankhar ordered, as Nicolò jerked fiercely. “Hold him - head back.”

“No...no.. please, stop. Please, don’t hurt him.” Yusuf cried and had Nicolò not known this was simply a part of the plan, he would have believed the fear, desperation and protectiveness in his voice. “I… I will talk. Please, please leave him be.”

“What could you possibly say to halt my blade?” Ankhar asked, his eyes locked on Nicolò, the point of his dagger, still dripping with blood, held aloft, inches from Nicolò’s face.

“I will tell you what you have asked - I’ll give you our employer.” Yusuf said, his voice pleading and his eyes… were those tears welling? 

Nicolò had to stop himself from frowning at the sincerity dripping from Yusuf’s every word and action, or risk ruining the deception.

“You’ll give him to me.” Ankhar sneered. “That is quite the change of tune.”

“We’ve been here for days on end. Our employers made us a promise of rescue, one he clearly is not capable of delivering. I will not continue to risk my life, or that of my companion. We will give you what you want - the man who hired us.”

“You will give me ibn Nasir?” Ankhar moved away from Nicolò and stood in front of Yusuf, his entire being practically vibrating in anticipation.

“I cannot give you ibn Nasir - no lone spy could do such a thing.” Yusuf said, lowering his head apologetically. “I can give you the man who hired us - one of ibn Nasir’s most trusted generals. There is a hidden outpost where we have been meeting.”

“You will take me there.” Ankhar stated in a tone that brokered no argument.

Yusuf nodded. “It has but a handful of men, but is very well positioned. Arriving without being seen is almost impossible.”

“But it is possible for you.” Ankhar leaned toward Yusuf, hands clenched.

“Nicolò and I know the terrain better than anyone. We could also be a distraction - our faces are known and trusted.”

“And how could I trust you? Trust that you would not betray me and my men?” 

“We have been left for dead.” Yusuf spat out, his voice cold. “I hold no allegiance to a man who cannot live up to his promises. I want to kill the general for his dishonesty.” Yusuf thumped his chest. “Leading you and your men into the outpost will be my pleasure.”

Ankhar met Yusuf’s feral grin with one of his own.

“I am willing to listen to you, as I believe in your quest for vengeance. But your companion… his silence, his cursed pale eyes… they do not inspire confidence.” 

Nicolò felt the both men turn his way, their eyes on him. He kept his head bowed, though he did peek through the curtain of his hair: Ankhar looked at him with disgust, which was no surprise. Yusuf’s eyes on the other hand, held worlds of emotion; fear, hope, determination, and belief. There was so much belief in his brown eyes that Nicolò himself, despite hours of expressing his concerns through the night of planning, could now have no doubts.

“He is foreign and simple. Good with a blade, but not much beyond.” Yusuf’s voice was dismissive.

It was part of the act, a part Nicolò had not argued over. He didn’t want to speak any more than necessary - this ploy, the persuasion of Ankhar, was best left to Yusuf and his considerable skills. Nicolò would play the simpleton without protest.

“You will control him.” Ankhar asked, turning away from Nicolò, his concerns assuaged. 

“With ease.”

* * *

There was something surreal about being outside of the encampment, on horseback surrounded by trees, birds chirping innocently unaware of the potential for deadly violence that hung in the air.

Yusuf could feel it.

Ankhar and his men were primed for battle. Bloodthirsty after years of conflict with ibn Nasir had led to a simmering hatred and a need for revenge and retribution.

It all felt eerily familiar. Yusuf could taste the bitterness of it in his mouth. His hatred of the Franks, of Nicolò himself, sat heavy in his belly. It was only weeks ago he had felt so strongly, yet it felt like another lifetime, another Yusuf.

The Yusuf of today could feel the pounding of his heart ringing in his ears. 

If this scheme didn’t work, if somehow he and Nicolò did not escape and their secret was revealed…

Yusuf had to bite his tongue to stop himself from letting his worries escape him. He felt strangely isolated, despite being flanked by half a dozen of Ankhar’s men. It was the largest group of people he had been in close quarters with for ages. For the first few hours of their travels, Yusuf has regaled the group with tales, making the young men laugh, breaking any of the anxious tension.

But as they continued their journey, they had all fallen silent. Ankhar would not have a stray word reveal them to the enemy.

All Yusuf wanted was to speak to Nicolò, but the other man was as far from him as was possible, a row of heavily armed men between them.

They had gone over the plan in hushed tones the night before. Yusuf knew that Nicolò understood what had to be done, as much as Yusuf himself. They would kill all these men, their captors, many of whom were barely men at all, but youths experiencing the first taste of adulthood. It was necessary however. With such poor odds, outnumbered six to one, there was little chance either he or Nicolò would not die and come back at some point during their attempt to escape.

“The consequence of these men discovering our ability would be unimaginable.” Nicolò had whispered at some point in the night, his voice heavy.

Yusuf agreed. They had speculated before on what Ankhar could with them, to them, and it did not bear further contemplation.

Now, as they entered the beginning of craggy foothills, scattered with outcroppings, shrubs and treacherous terrain, Yusuf could feel his muscles tighten in anticipation. He had chosen the route very precisely - this area was difficult to navigate and thus an excellent place for a non-existent hidden outpost. It was also the perfect spot for he and Nicolò to turn on their captures as it was isolated with narrow passages that prevented any easy escape. 

They would have no better chance than here and now.

Yusuf wished he had Nicolò’s calm presence at his side. The man never seemed to show any signs of discomfort or anxiety, at least not outwardly. He was as solid as the rocks in the hills, and Yusuf was surprised by how much he missed his reassuring presence at his side. After months of travelling with Nicolò, despite the deep distrust that had kept them distant for far too long, Yusuf had come to trust the other man in a crisis.

Today, it was Yusuf’s job to create chaos. As they entered a narrow rocky passageway, a memorable geographic feature Yusuf has spoken about with an old merchant in the little town that had been their sanctuary prior to Ankhar’s attack, Yusuf shifted slightly in his seat. His horse snorted and protested beneath him, not appreciating where Yusuf had put his weight.

“I think my horse is injured.” Yusuf said, keeping his voice mild, yet concerned as he hopped down to the ground.

“We are not stopping. Do not dawdle.” Ankhar called from the head of the group, with barely a glance over his shoulder.

It was an ideal reaction and Yusuf did not hesitate to take advantage. He bent down, grabbing a handful of dirt and threw it into the eyes of the horse of the guard next to him, before launching himself upwards onto the rider’s side.

The element of surprise worked exactly as intended, and Yusuf was able to tackle the man to the ground, disarm him and slit his throat within seconds. He could hear the commotion surrounding him, and as he whirled to face an attacker coming at him from the right, he caught sight of Nicolò wrestling with another guard, blood already staining his tunic.

Dispatching the second guard, Yusuf acted quickly - the other guards were turning, a slow and awkward move with their horses in the narrow passageway, but soon he and Nicolò would be even more outnumbered. Yusuf sent a quick apology to Allah, and then whacked his horse soundly with his blade, causing it to rear and careen toward the oncoming riders in a panic.

Yusuf found his way to Nicolò; the other man was currently divesting the two men he had already killed of all of their weapons. Four men dead, eight still headed their way, no seven… six. Yusuf glanced over and watched as Nicolò, with a look of cold concentration, let another dagger fly and hit a third guard square in the chest. Yusuf couldn’t suppress the deep satisfaction that bloomed in his chest at Nicolò’s efficiency and skill.

A quick complement for the other man died on his lips when Nicolò fell over backwards, a sword sunk into his chest, blood gurgling from his mouth.

Mouth gaping open in horror, Yusuf turned just in time to duck and roll away from another precisely thrown blade. Ankhar’s lethality was no mere rumour, and Nicolò had fallen victim to it. 

Yusuf would have seethed. He would have raged. He would have vowed vengeance. Had he had the time, he would have done all of those things. 

Instead, he crouched and then rolled under Ankhar’s horse, slashing his blade across it’s back leg, sending both the horse and rider to the ground. The two men flanking Ankhar followed him, ignoring Yusuf completely in their efforts to rescue their leader. Which gave Yusuf the time to raise his scimitar and stop a killing blow from another one of Ankhar’s men. Unfortunately, two other men were baring down on him with alarming speed.

Or they were until a body literally threw itself between him and the oncoming horses.

Yusuf surged forward, killing both men quickly, before they were able to disentangle themselves from the fallen horses. Nicolò lay amongst the chaos, dead again, his limbs splayed awkwardly. 

Yusuf let his anger run free as he charged toward the two remaining guards. They were not so easily killed as the men Nicolò had trapped under their horses, but Yusuf’s skill with a blade, combined with his rage, was more than a match for the two young men. They didn’t have Yusuf’s experience, they hadn’t seen the carnage of Jerusalem, they hadn’t watched their only friend, the only man who could even begin to understand the ridiculous nature of Yusuf’s life, die twice in the span of five minutes. Yusuf had, and he used every bit of his experience and his frustration to kill the two young men in front of him.

He met them blow for blow, his body moving smoothly, anticipating their amature approaches and their rage driven hacks. Yusuf felt as if his opponents’ every move was easily predicted and incredibly slow, like a horse mired in quicksand.

Yet when the battle was won, when Yusuf stood above the bodies of the two men, his breath came in harsh pants and he could not remember how he had won.

“Who are you?” 

Yusuf turned to face Ankhar, the only other man still alive and standing.

“I am but a spy, just as you have accused.” Yusuf replied, bowing his head slightly in mock deference.

“You are no mere spy. Nor was your companion. You are vipers set in my nest; an elaborate plot to weaken me.” Ankhar spoke, his eyes glowing with paranoid grandeur. 

“You think too much of us.” Yusuf replied, stepping to the side and watching as Ankhar mirrored his movements.

“I am no fool. You are not the carefree storyteller you have presented yourself to be.”

Yusuf stepped again. “I am the spy I have admitted to be.”

“You keep your secrets still, even as I hold your life in my hands.” Ankhar tightened his grip on his scimitar and Yusuf stepped again, slow and deliberate to the side.

“And if I revealed my secrets, would you let me live?” Yusuf asked.

Ankhar’s silence spoke volumes. Yusuf took one more step, and could finally see the pile of horses and dead men behind Ankhar.

“There is no where to go.” Ankhar leered, moving forward, challenging.

“Perhaps not.” Yusuf shrugged.

“You think you can take me?” Ankhar’s cruel laugh echoed off the rocks.

“No.” Yusuf admitted truthfully.

Anhkar was larger than he, with arms so bulky they looked like they could lift a horse. He had years of experience in battle, attacking villages and fighting skirmiches as a way of life. Yusuf had had a pampered childhood by comparison - son of a merchant, well educated, and well travelled. He had hardly lifted a blade outside of a training ring until he had chosen to stay and defend the walls of Jerusalem. He had learned a great deal since then, but his skills were no match for Ankhar’s, of that Yusuf was certain.

“I do not have to kill you.” Yusuf said, carefully keeping his face locked on Ankhar’s.

“You have some other plot, do you?” Ankhar sneered.

Yusuf shook his head and watched in silence as Nicolò carefully and absolutely silently crept up behind Ankhar and neatly stabbed him in the neck.

“No, I have him.” Yusuf whispered.

Looking at Nicolò, splattered with blood and gore and dirt, Yusuf suddenly felt the effects of the battle, of all of his efforts. His legs shook and he staggered as he moved forward, reaching out for Nicolò who was standing still, eyes fixed on Ankhar’s body.

“Nicolò?” Yusuf placed his hand on Nicolò’s shoulder, gripping it hard, taking comfort in the other man’s solid presence.

“It is over.” Nicolò looked up, his eyes wider than Yusuf had seen them since their first few days together. “Over.”

“Yes.” Yusuf nodded.

He sank slowly to his knees, and Nicolò followed, his wide sea coloured eyes locked on Yusuf’s face. Yusuf understood the swirl of emotion behind those eyes: the shock, the relief, the disbelief. He felt the same; wanting to laugh, cry, send his praises to Allah, and collapse all at once.

Instead he leaned forward, gently touching his forehead to Nicolò’s. He closed his eyes and listened to Nicolò’s breathing, and his own. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/192104172@N07/50931777611/in/dateposted-public/)

Only two weeks ago, Yusuf would not have imagined he could take such comfort in Nicolò’s mere presence. Now, those broad, solid shoulders, those wide palms, were so familiar they felt like home. 

Yusuf let himself soak up Nicolò’s calming energy, he let himself feel relief. After days, or perhaps weeks of captivity, and their recent battle for escape, Yusuf could barely comprehend this new reality. They had succeeded. Through the development of a true partnership and trust, they had succeeded together.

* * *

“That’s it? That’s the story?” Nile protested, pacing across the living room. “Where are the declarations of love? Where’s the first kiss? Or the fade to black for the sex you should definitely not tell me about in any detail?”

“I would be happy to tell you the detail of the first time I saw my Nicolò’s perfect -”

“I am going to stop you right there.” Nile held up a hand.

“Love follows trust.” Nicky said. “We would not sit here today, together, without the trust we worked so hard to build.”

“Now _that_ had at least a hint of romance to it.” Nile gestured toward Nicky, while glaring pointed at Joe. 

“If you had let me continue,” Joe arched a brow, “I am more than capable of creating poetry regarding Nicolò’s form -”

“Nicky.” Nile turned her back on Joe. “Your husband is gross.”

“Joe is a man of passion.” Nicky replied, his lips twitching into a small smile. 

“Is the story of your first kiss romantic at least?” Nile asked, voice hopeful.

“Ah, well…” Joe hesitated.

“He pushed me into a lake.” Nicky offered. “He kissed me after, but the push happened first.”

“You deserved it!” Joe exclaimed, a wide smile splitting his face. “He was being impossible; working shirtless, purposefully tempting me - I had to do something.”

“I give up!” Nile threw her hands into the air. “I thought the couple who had the longest running relationship in history might have an epic romantic beginning, but clearly I was horribly wrong.”

Joe watched Nile leave the room, shaking her head and muttering.

“I am a romantic, am I not, my moon?” Joe turned to look at Nicky. “Perhaps I could share some of my poems with her, or the collection of nudes I’ve sketched through the centuries to try to capture your beauty, and that would prove -”

“I do not think Nile would appreciate either of those options, _tesoro_.” Nicky countered lightly, his eyes sparkling. “I, however, would be happy to assist you in adding to your sketching collection; the gardens here are very private.”

“I can think of no better way to spend the afternoon.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it this far - thank you very much for reading! All comments and kudos are treasured like the jewels they are and feed this writer's soul :)


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